


and the next, and the next

by jenhyung



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Author Has Lost Their Mind, Drama, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenhyung/pseuds/jenhyung
Summary: Youngho wonders.
Relationships: Suh Youngho | Johnny/Qian Kun
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was requested anonymously! thank you very much for the request!

It starts with a fall.

Youngho is running and running and he swears–swears on all the candies and chocolates in the world–that he’s looking at where he’s going, but there’s a stutter in his step and his palms hit asphalt before his knees do. The sting follows immediately, his hands and knees prickling sharply as he tries to regain his balance.

“Yinghao!”

Grabby hands are on Youngho’s arms and shoulders, curling tight. Disoriented, Youngho takes a moment to understand his surroundings. He lifts his palm and winces at the sight of them scratched and bloodied, trickling down the side of his wrist.

His mother was going to be so upset with him.

“Are you okay?”

Youngho forgets about the inevitable lecture he’s going to receive for his new collection of bruises. He looks up at the figure now crouched by his side, holding onto Youngho’s hands, meticulously inspecting the injuries.

“I’m okay, Kun,” Youngho sighs. He tries to pull his hands free, to shy away, but Kun clicks his tongue, glancing up for a brief moment just to give Youngho a stern look. Youngho deflates, knowing it’s never a good idea to argue with Kun, despite him being a year older than the six-year-old. He bristles, “I’m fine, okay? We have to keep going else we’ll never reach the ice cream truck!”

“Are you still thinking about ice cream!” Kun shakes his head, focused instead on dusting Youngho off. His small hands are gentle the reddening swells, thrumming pure energy into Youngho’s skin, “We have to wash these and get them disinfected, Yinghao, what if you lose your whole leg–”

“Now you’re just being dramatic!”

Youngho manages to shake Kun free, standing on unsteady feet. There’s a lingering ache around his wrists and knees having braced the impact of his fall, but Youngho pretends it’s nothing but an itch. Kun is looking at him far too closely, watching his every move, every grimace; Youngho didn’t want Kun to think a measly fall could hurt him, no way.

“We should really go back. What if it gets infected, Ying? You won’t be able to–”

“You’re saying my name wrong,” Youngho says, swiftly ignoring Kun’s concerns. He isn’t _hurt,_ no way. The jingle of the ice cream truck is soft, but it hasn’t completely disappeared. Youngho continues down the sidewalk, “It’s Youngho.”

“Sorry,” Kun mumbles. He’s on Youngho’s heels, obedient to a fault, “I mean, Youngho.”

“I’m older than you too,” Youngho adds. “You should call me hyung.”

Kun thinks about it for a block. He tries it out, “Hyung.”

The _eo_ in his vowels aren’t exactly examples of a perfect pronunciation, but Youngho never really cared for proper diction anyway. In fact, he’d always thought the slight lilt of Kun’s accent made regular words sound a lot more interesting.

“Right,” Youngho approves. He sees the familiar shades of the ice cream truck’s baby pink and blue, “And since I’m your hyung, I get to buy you ice cream today.”

Kun is aghast, “You don’t have to!”

“I know,” Youngho says. He picks up the pace and Kun’s hand is around his elbow again, afraid he might meet the pavement once more, “I’m saying I want to.”

“Because you’re my hyung?”

“I’m not _your_ hyung,” Youngho rolls his eyes.

The ice cream truck draws close and Youngho hides the grin that threatens to break through. He’d been looking forward to this all week–he’d even offered to do a bunch of more chores around the house just so he could earn a couple of more dollars to get them both chocolate covered cones with extra sprinkles.

There was no reason _why_. Did there have to be a reason why?

“Oh.” Kun is persistent, “Then why?”

Youngho shrugs, “Because I want to.”


	2. Chapter 2

Suh Youngho is three minutes into another compilation video of this season’s KBL highlights when someone taps him on the shoulder. He hits the spacebar and swivels in his desk chair, gaze meeting Lee Taeyong’s–best friend of fourteen years and current executive associate at SMC, one of Seoul’s largest media marketing companies.

“You’re going to get caught one day, you know?” Taeyong says, nodding at the opened tabs Youngho has on a wide array of videos ranging from cat-related ones to _Bon Appétit._ He moves to rest his weight on the edge of Youngho’s desk, thin arms folded across his chest, “How are you getting away with this, honestly.”

Youngho shrugs, “I get work done, Yong.” He takes his headphones off, sets it aside, “Plus, our team’s pretty much got the handle on all our clients for the next two weeks at least–I’d say the cat videos are a well-deserved reward.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes. Any other day, Youngho knows he’d be on the other end of Taeyong’s infamous lectures, but today, he knows he’s right. With just two weeks until Christmas, there’s no reason for them or their team to be placing in miles at work. They’ve crammed to finish everything in the past month or so, and there’s never been a better time to use their paid hours for nonsense.

“I wanted to get you out of here for lunch,” Taeyong says. He eyes the paused frame of basketball league players on Youngho’s desktop and grimaces, “If I didn’t remind you, you’d probably go the entire day without eating.”

“Not true.” Youngho stretches his arms over his head, legs out under his desk, “I had an apple earlier.” Taeyong gives him a look harsh enough to have him on his feet and nodding, “What about Doyoung? Is he coming with?”

The question is redundant.

“He is.”

Youngho places his desktop to sleep, gathers his phone and wallet. “And I’m not intruding?”

“No.” Taeyong clicks his tongue, “You’re not.”

They’d both met Kim Doyoung over the course of their days at university and it didn’t take long for Youngho to realize that he was the extra limb in their group of three. It’s been years since that very first time Taeyong’d locked eyes with Doyoung in a crowded hallway and for most of those years, Youngho has voluntarily been their honorary third wheel.

“Where are we going?”

Taeyong hops off the desk, “Bad Farmers.”

Youngho follows as Taeyong leads the way out of the main office space. They pass rows of long wooden tables and ergonomic seats, low partitions and decorative plants, all in plain effort to really kick that open concept into gear. Most of their coworkers have already left on Christmas break or have decided to work from home over the jolly season, leaving the office a little emptier than usual.

“Doyoung’s got a new transfer on his team,” Taeyong says, voice echoing the marbled walls of the elevator lobby. He pushes the _down_ button, “He’s just arrived today.”

Youngho hums, “Ah.”

“What?”

Youngho tucks his hands into his pockets, “You never have me tag along for lunch. It’s like you and Doyoung’s– _thing,_ like–I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat with anyone else but Doyoung.” Taeyong’s cheeks turn a little red and Youngho grins, “You just want me to go along so that this new hire of his doesn’t feel uncomfortable, don’t you?”

Taeyong doesn’t bother hiding it, “It was Doyoung’s idea.” He pushes the button again, twice this time, “Not everyone handles being a third wheel as good as you do.”

Youngho shrugs. It hasn’t always been easy, watching his best friend’s love life unfold like a meticulously planned TV soap, but he wouldn’t want it any other way. Once, Taeyong was sent on a two-week-long business trip and Doyoung had been such as mess that Youngho’d been worried to leave the younger boy home alone.

Having them together has always been inherently right–Youngho wouldn’t see it any other way.

“Who is this guy anyway?” Youngho moves to the back of the elevator, admiring their view from the thirty-seventh floor. The glass elevators used to scare him a lot more, falling at such a height with the world beneath him, but three years have been enough to have him appreciate it instead, “A transfer so close to Christmas?”

“It was a decision from the higher-ups,” Taeyong says. The panel above the buttons flicker the numbers red, “They only told Doyoung a week ago. Said they wanted him to show the transfer around.”

Youngho looks over his shoulder, “They’re not from here?”

Taeyong shakes his head, “From SMC’s branch in Beijing.”

 _Beijing_.

Youngho turns back around, stomach turning a little when he realizes how much close they are to the ground now. He focuses on a middle-aged lady walking her dog, a fluffy poodle-like puppy in a bright yellow harness, willing the sudden wave of unease away. The lurch in his gut stays until they’re safely on the ground, and Youngho breathes again.

“I didn’t know we had a branch in Beijing,” he muses aloud.

“That’s slightly worrying considering how often with liaise with them,” Taeyong points out. 

The elevator doors slide open and Youngho doesn’t get a chance to redeem himself; Taeyong must’ve spotted Doyoung already in the lobby waiting for them because he’s skipping out of the elevator without a care for Youngho’s non-existent rebuttal. Youngho follows–just like he always does when Taeyong bolts off running for Doyoung–and finds that familiar silhouette of Doyoung’s by the front desk.

Beside him is a frame unfamiliar to Youngho, and he pieces the stranger as Doyoung’s new hire. From afar, he can’t discern much, noting only how the hire’s slightly shorter than Doyoung is, shoulders narrower too.

Taeyong’s blonde hair bounces as he practically skips over to Doyoung, flowers growing fresh with every step. His shoes clack against the marble tiles and it has Doyoung looking up from where he’d been speaking with the receptionist.

Doyoung’s lips curl immediately at the sight of Taeyong, stretching a hand out for Taeyong to take. He kisses Taeyong’s temple in greeting, then looks up to smile at Youngho too.

“–until we can get a new card for him so I’d to put a request in early,” Youngho hears Doyoung say when he nears, “and hopefully we can get it before Christmas break.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, baby,” Taeyong says. He hooks an arm around Doyoung’s to peer past his boyfriend and sticks his hand out at the new hire, “Hi! I’m Taeyong by the way, I work up in Project Management on the thirty-seventh. You’re the new transfer on Doyoung’s team, right?”

Youngho steps closer, strains to hear.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Youngho thinks there to be little to no accent in the man’s voice; if he bumped into them on the street, he wouldn’t have guessed they weren’t from around here.

“My name is Qian Kun–but just Kun is fine.”

That twist in Youngho’s stomach returns.

_Kun?_

Had Youngho ever heard of that name before?

He takes a step forward for a better look, bringing himself into Qian Kun’s view as he does. At first glance, there’s nothing familiar about the new hire, but Youngho did think him to be pleasant-looking–dark hair that framed his slim face, round spectacles sitting daintily on the bridge of his nose, dimples sinking deep in his cheeks.

Youngho blinks.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Taeyong is saying, stepping straight into his usual role as team leader. He’s always been proficient in ridding the awkward tension accompanied whenever there’s someone on the first day of their new role. He steps aside then, Doyoung stumbling a little as he goes, “We’re just about to head out to lunch and we’d love for you to join us!”

Kun pauses, eyes darting from Taeyong to Doyoung, then Youngho. It’s the very first time Youngho’s been noticed, and the spark in the hollow cavity of his chest shocks him into offering a hesitant grin

Kun’s face remains impassive and he looks to Taeyong to ask, “Would that be alright?”

Taeyong reassures Kun that it’s very much their pleasure to welcome him and leads them out of the building, onto the cold streets where the wind gushes harshly. His recommendations off the Bad Farmers’ menu are unheard when a particularly strong gust of wintry air has him tucking low into Doyoung’s shoulder.

Youngho nods when Taeyong points wordlessly down the road, turning to head down the sidewalk with Doyoung held close. They’ve always moved in tangent with one another, never leaving the other behind, never walking too far ahead.

It was sweet, their sort of love.

“Sorry.”

Youngho realizes he’s expected to answer a beat too late, “Sorry?”

Kun sidesteps a crack on the ground, returning to Youngho’s side with a small hop. He fumbles with the zip on his jacket, fingers pale against the black parka, “I didn’t catch your name earlier?”

“Oh.” Youngho doesn’t know why his throat’s gone all dry, “Suh Youngho. I work with Taeyong on the thirty-seventh.”

It happens fairly quick–Kun’s hand slips from where he’d been tugging roughly on his zip and it thwarts upwards to knock painfully against his jaw. He inhales sharply then groans, holding onto his chin where he’d so very accidentally punched himself in the face.

Youngho chokes on a laugh, but catches himself before he can offend Kun with one of his inappropriately timed giggles. He hovers over where Kun’s still groaning in pain, body doubled over, staggering on wobbly legs.

“Are you okay?” Youngho steadies Kun, holding him by the shoulder to keep him from tumbling onto oncoming traffic. He guides Kun away from the road, leaning close to see if his new acquaintance could possibly be bleeding, “Hey, are you–”

It’s when he notices the small beauty mark under Kun’s right brow that Youngho stops breathing. His lips are still parted, the latter half of his sentence falling silent, and all he can do is stare at Kun–because what _is_ it in the back of Youngho’s mind that’s sounding off like emergency sirens?

Kun frowns at him, eyes tracing Youngho’s face like he can’t believe it. He stands, and Youngho follows, not understanding the sudden recognition on Kun’s face, the surprise in his eyes.

“Yinghao?”

All at once, Youngho remembers.

He remembers meeting a boy a year younger than him after Youngho moved to a different neighborhood, he remembers being elated over the idea of finally having someone around his age he could finally play with, he remembers all the evenings he’d sprint over to his neighbor’s to feast on cut fruit and occasionally some homemade ice cream.

He remembers Kun.

He remembers Kun trotting after him with those red sneakers and that Doraemon lanyard around his neck that had his name and Mrs. Qian’s number on the back of a laminated card; he remembers Kun peering from his living room window whenever Youngho ran up to visit, hands pressed up to the glass to watch Youngho with the biggest grin on his face; he remembers Kun and their adventures to nearby hills and abandoned parks and narrow alleys–which retrospectively was not where children should be off playing around–where they would pretend to be superheroes on a mission to save their world.

And Youngho remembers when Kun had to leave.

It’d been one of the worst days of his childhood, learning that Kun’s father was being reassigned a different job that had him and their entire family moving back to Beijing a cruel eight years after they’d settled down in Seoul. It’d been terrible, watching fourteen-year-old Kun pile up into a taxi one early Summer morning and crying his goodbyes through his bedroom window, wishing he would wake up from his terrible dream, wishing that he wouldn’t have to watch his best friend leave him. It had Youngho so upset that he’d willed the memory out of his mind–refused to think about it, refused to be sad over losing Kun, refused to read the letters Kun’d sent over from Beijing, ignored the calls, the texts, the emails. Youngho had been determined to not acknowledge Kun’s existence, for if he did, he would have to acknowledge that Kun had left–and that was unacceptable, and that was more than his young heart could handle.

Yet, here they are now.

Youngho doesn’t know how to react. How should he react, meeting an old friend once more? A friend he barely remembers, but a friend that’d taken so much of Youngho’s heart back then, a friend that had Youngho experiencing firsthand the meaning of true sadness, a friend Youngho took weeks–no, _months_ –to forget.

 _Heartbreak_ , his mother had told him. His first ever one and Youngho hadn’t a clue how to pick the pieces back up yet.

It wasn’t Kun’s fault, Youngho knew, it was circumstance out of their hands–out of the hands of mere teenagers.

Youngho shoves the dull ache in his chest away and breaks into a grin, watching Kun’s eyes widen, “That’s still Youngho _hyung_ to you, you know?”

It’s been years but Kun’s look of incredulity parallels the ones he used to have whenever Youngho conversed well in Mandarin with Mrs. Qian. Youngho hadn’t told Kun back then that he used to get lessons in Mandarin as per his father’s request, but instead claimed that he simply knew off the top of his head how to speak an entirely different language.

“It’s really you?” Kun says, barely a breath. His hand lowers from his face, revealing an angry mark, “Seriously?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s me,” Youngho raises a brow, “Are _you_ , you?”

Kun gapes, “What?”

“Qian Kun, my neighbor back in Jongno, right?” Youngho takes Kun’s extended silence as a _yes_ , “We used to play together, didn’t we? Around the gates and the reserves? Remember–you’d call yourself _the Savior of all Kittens_ and–”

“ _Oh_ my god, oh my god–” Kun shakes his head, waves his hands in front of Youngho’s face to keep him from digging free their embarrassing childhood nicknames. His shy demeanor melts away with every second he looks at Youngho, “It really is you. Suh Youngho.”

“Suh Youngho _hyung_.”

Kun blinks, “Right. Hyung.”

“What–” It’s Youngho’s turn to stumble over his words, “What are you doing here? What–how–I don’t even know what to ask anymore. What–where did you go after you moved back to Beijing? When did you get back to Seoul? Are you staying here indefinitely? Or are you–”

“–hey!”

Youngho bolts upright, as if yanked back into the present day. He turns to find Taeyong looking puzzled at them both, and Youngho realizes belatedly that they’re quite literally standing in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to discuss their sudden reunion.

“We should go,” Youngho changes tracks quickly. Kun nods, follows when Youngho turns to leave, just like he used to when they were younger, “Sorry, I have so many questions–I just can’t believe you’re here; I–I’d never thought I’d see you again, honestly.”

They turn down the corner of the block for the neon green sign and bright red walls of Bed Farmers to come into view, with Taeyong and Doyoung’s huddled figures shuffling hurriedly towards the entrance.

“Yeah,” Kun mumbles, so softly that Youngho nearly misses it. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again either, hyung.”

–

“You’re kidding me.”

Youngho shakes his head, breathless after recounting the afternoon’s turn of events. He hugs the mug of hot coffee closer to his chest, hoping it would warm the tips of his fingers before they could fall off. Taeyong continues to stare, hands paused over where he’d been making himself a cup of hot chocolate.

“What are the chances,” Taeyong murmurs. He flickers back to life, “How do you feel?”

“Weird,” Youngho says, represses a shudder. He takes a small sip from his drink, “Not–not a _bad_ weird, but like a–like a–I don’t know. I never thought I’d see him again; it’s been so long since I’d even thought of him.”

“Didn’t you say he was your neighbor?” Taeyong shuffles around the pantry for his hidden stash of mini marshmallows. He dunks a few into his mug, eyeing Youngho as he did, “What’s so weird about that?”

Youngho shrugs. Kun had been his neighbor, yes, but he was also Youngho’s best friend for a whole eight years. He was the Robin to Youngho’s Batman, the Sherlock to Youngho’s John, and it’s _has_ been ages since he’s thought of Kun, there’s no denying that, but seeing him again. Seeing him again, all grown up and different–it makes Youngho think of all the years he’s missed seeing Kun.

He’d missed seeing Kun go through his awkward high school phase, he’d missed seeing Kun go through baggy jeans and terribly dyed hair (Youngho didn’t know if this were true, but everyone had that _one_ phase surely), he’d missed seeing Kun go through his days at university and everything in between.

It all made Youngho a little–unsettled.

He thought they were going to grow up together and then they didn’t.

And Youngho had hated that.

Taeyong gives him an odd look, “But why?”

“I don’t know,” Youngho sighs. He thinks back to when he’d cried himself to sleep for weeks after Kun had left, wonders if that were any normal for a fifteen-year-old, “I think he just–meant a lot to me back then.”

“And?”

“And seeing him now,” Youngho taps at his mug absentmindedly, “I don’t know what to feel.”

Taeyong sighs, “Well, at least you’re not obliged to see him again.” The pause has Taeyong looking up, staring at Youngho across the edge of his mug, “Right?”

Youngho winces inwardly at Taeyong’s questioning gaze, “Well, actually–we’re meeting again tonight.”

“What–you just said you felt weird seeing him again!”

“It’s a _good_ weird,” Youngho defends. He crosses and uncross his legs, moves to sit on the edge of the pantry counter, “I had so many questions and I didn’t want to ask them with you and Doyoung there, so I suggested we go out to dinner and he said he hasn’t had time to familiarize himself with the town so I–offered.”

“I’m confused,” Taeyong says bluntly. He sets his mug down and talks with his hands, “You and Kun. Childhood friends. Someone you blocked out of your memory _completely_ , to the point you didn’t remember him even after he introduced himself; _and y_ ou feel weird–but a _good_ weird–but weird about it nevertheless. How does going out to dinner sound like a logical progression of events?”

Youngho groans, “I don’t know!” He swipes a hand through his hair, “I don’t know–I just felt like I didn’t want our conversation to just–you know, end today at lunch.”

“Please unwrap that for me.”

“I just want to know what he’s been up to!” Youngho blinks furiously, tries to come up with any other reason than _I just want to_ , “We were best friends during my formative years, I mean–don’t psychologist say those are the most important years of childhood?”

Taeyong balks, “You’re talking _science_ to me?”

“I don’t–well, yes!” Youngho swallows thickly, “Is it really all that weird if I want to know more about him?”

Taeyong’s frown deepens. It’s a full three seconds after that his expression relaxes into one of comprehension, and his lips to form a tiny _oh_. He bites on his lip, the corners of his lips curling up in a devious grin.

“What?” Youngho doesn’t like not knowing, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Taeyong says, in a voice that’s nowhere near nothing. He picks his mug back up, takes a large sip, all the while staring at Youngho with those large doe eyes of this. He laughs, that loud obnoxious one he’s had since their days in university, “Nothing!”

Youngho rolls his eyes, “Seriously, Yong, what is it?”

Taeyong shakes his head. On his triumphant way out of the pantry, he pats Youngho on the shoulder in the most patronizing manner Youngho’s ever felt, smug when he says, “Figure it out yourself, Suh.”

–

Kun is late.

Youngho waits by the reception on the first floor for an agonizing forty minutes before he hears running across the marbled floors. He looks up from his boring game of feeding animated cats to see Kun jogging towards him, hair flouncing as he does.

“Sorry–” Kun exhales heavily, skidding to a stop where Youngho’s rising to stand, “I had a meeting with my supervisor and I didn’t think it’d run so long, and I didn’t know how to reach you to let you know and I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Youngho says quickly, not wanting to risk Kun bursting a vein trying to explain himself. He tucks his phone away, “I bumped into Doyoung and Taeyong earlier and Doyoung told me you might be a little late, so it’s okay, really.”

Kun sighs again, one of relief.

Youngho doesn’t mention the shit-eating grin the loving couple shared as they wished him good luck for god knows whatever reason. He’d begged Taeyong to tell him just what on earth he’d realized but Taeyong refused to, running straight to Doyoung to spill the beans instead.

“Still,” Kun says, catching his breath, “I made you wait for so long–I–dinner’s on me tonight, okay?”

Youngho scoffs, “No way! Our first meal in years and you’re already thinking of snatching tabs?”

“No, but I–”

“C’mon,” Youngho starts to backpedal, grins when Kun follows on instinct, “What kind of hyung would I be if I made you pay for dinner?”

Kun clears his throat, lips pressed tight as he nods in silent reluctance. Youngho didn’t think it could get any colder as opposed to the afternoon, but he’s proven wrong immediately the moment they step out of the building, thwarted into another freezing whirlwind.

Beside him, Kun shivers.

“You okay?” Youngho’s already untangling his scarf, “It’s not a far walk from here and I’m not all that–”

“I’m alright,” Kun says, before Youngho can offer the knitted mustard scarf around his neck. He zips his jacket up to his chin, carefully this time, “I’ll get used to it soon–it’s cold back in Beijing too.”

“Is it? I’ve always wanted to visit.”

Kun doesn’t question it, “You should in Spring. The weather’s the best then.”

“Ah,” Youngho nods. “I’ll remember that.”

Moving along, Youngho starts their way down left of the building. The nearest street market isn’t too far away and Youngho had spent all afternoon deciding between nearby eateries only to work out that soju tents are the way to go tonight. Taeyong suggested something a little more indoors, given the cold weather, but Youngho thought it’d be a nice opportunity to show Kun the local scene and drinking culture too.

With silence between them, Youngho steals a glance where Kun’s walking on his right, focused on his feet against the sidewalk. It brings a smile to Youngho’s face, remembering how Kun used to do the exact same thing when they were younger, always on Youngho’s right with his head bowed low.

“So,” Kun starts; it has Youngho averting his eyes, “Where are we going?”

“A soju tent.” He explains when Kun tilts his head in question, “They’re like outdoor bars, but it’s really popular here for the tents they use and the snacks you get to order too.”

Kun blinks, “You’re taking me to a bar?”

Youngho nearly trips over his own two feet, “Oh– _no_ , no, it’s not like a _bar_ bar–I mean–it’s like a drinking spot, yes, but they serve food like barbecue and–and–hot foods. I thought–you might like to try something–more exclusive to Korea rather than a restaurant you could have anywhere else.”

“Oh.” It’s a pause before Kun laughs, “Sorry, you just caught me off guard for a moment there, hyung.”

Youngho’s neck warms and the scarf begins to itch, “I wouldn’t just–take you out to a bar like that, that would be weird. Wouldn’t it?”

Without missing a beat this time, “It would.” They take a turn down the block, “Are you sure I’m not taking up too much of your time? I mean, it _is_ a Friday night.”

Youngho looks to Kun, incredulous, “We haven’t met in more than ten years and you’re already chasing me away? Wow, I’m honestly so hurt right now.”

“I’m not–” Kun clicks his tongue, “I mean, are you sure you don’t have other plans scheduled? I wouldn’t–want you missing out on anything just to show me around and–”

“I didn’t have anything planned,” Youngho assures him firmly.

After his blackout days of partying through all four years of University, Youngho’d willingly and thankfully drifted off into a much milder and quieter lifestyle. He still enjoyed a drink every now and then with Taeyong and the rest of his colleagues, but most weeknights were spent catching up on TV and working on that 10,000 piece puzzle he’d received as a birthday gift.

Taeyong called it boring, but Youngho thought of it as a simple, easy-going way of living that has him moving at his own time and pace. He did miss the company of others at times, but it’s nothing a little distraction can’t fix.

“It’s just around the corner here,” Youngho says, spotting the rows of red tents and the telltale puffs of smoke. From the corner of his eyes, he notices the frown still on Kun’s face, “Hey.”

Kun startles, blinks up at Youngho, “Huh?”

“I mean it.” Youngho can’t help but smile at the Kun’s confusion, again looking as he used to years ago, “I’m not–taking you out just because I feel like I have to.”

“Then why?”

Youngho shrugs, “I just want to.”

When the words leave his lips, he’s immediately hit with déjà vu, but the ahjumma by the store he frequents most is already calling out for him, having spotted him from three tents away. Youngho shakes his head and thinks nothing of it.

“Ah, Youngho, my boy!” Ahjumma Kim is grabbing Youngho by the cheeks with her hands, the rough fabric of cooking gloves prickling, “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you!”

“Yes, yes,” Youngho laughs, letting Ahjumma Kim gush over him as she shows him to an empty spot near the corner of the tent. He gestures to Kun, “I’ve been busy with work lately, but this is my colleague, Kun–it’s his first day here, so I wanted to bring him to the best spot for barbecue tonight.”

Ahjumma Kim practically melts, “You always know the right things to say, don’t you!” She clicks her tongue and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, “Just for that, I’ll give you some extra side dishes today! Order whatever you want, I’ll get the usual ready for you, dear.”

“Thank you,” Youngho beams. He takes the seat across Kun, already flipping through the menu, “You’re the best!”

Ahjumma Kim scoffs, shakes her head as she walks to tend to other tables, “I hope you know that if all of my customers were like you, I’d go bankrupt!”

Youngho laughs politely, catches the amused expression on Kun’s face. He raises a brow, “What?”

“Nothing.” Kun hides a small laugh behind a hand, eyes turning into crescent moons, “Nothing at all.”

“No,” Youngho whines. He reaches across the table to tap at Kun’s arm, “Tell me–what is it?”

“Nothing!” Kun laughs again, louder this time. He smiles when Youngho pulls his lips into a pout, “It’s just–you played that ahjumma so well, I actually–feel really bad for her.”

“What!” Youngho splutters, “I wasn’t playing her!”

“Please,” Kun rolls his eyes. He flicks through the menu, glancing only at Youngho once, “If she stood around you any longer, I’m sure you would’ve gotten down on one knee.”

Youngho gasps in feign offense, “I would not!”

“Do you not remember that one time Park Jihoon from down the next suburb gave you all of the change in his pocket?” Kun’s eyes glint under the hanging lights, lips pulled back in a wide grin, “Just because you smiled at him!”

“That wasn’t–that–” Youngho remembers clearly that he didn’t accept Jihoon’s money, “He said–he said he had extras.”

Kun stares at him, “Extra money?”

Youngho clamps his mouth shut. He grabs the cups and water jug, “I was _not_ playing her. Or Park Jihoon.”

“Not on purpose, of course,” Kun grins. Youngho ignores him, pouring them each a glass of water. Kun relents on the teasing, as much as it brought Youngho back to their days in the old neighborhood, “So, what’s good here?”

–

They make it to nine soju bottles between them.

“Just another glass–”

“No, _no_ , Kun!” Youngho is holding his glass away, trying to keep Kun from pouring him yet another shot. He jabs Kun in the sides, but Kun laughs it off, standing to grab Youngho’s glass swiftly away, filling it to the brim. Kun is smiling when he hands it back to Youngho, who couldn’t be any happier about it, “I’m drunk, Kun.”

“You are not,” Kun snorts. He pours himself another shot too, holding it up, “ _Jjan, jjan, jjan_!”

Youngho sighs, hands unsteady as he grabs his own glass, spilling a little soju over the sides. He clinks his glass with Kun’s and throws the shot back, tasting the sweetness of strawberry and the tartness of the alcohol hit the back of his throat.

“Well,” Kun tips the now empty bottle over, “That’s done.”

Youngho moves faster than Kun does, picking up their coats (which were shed around their fourth bottle) before Kun can call for another round of drinks. He’d taught Kun a couple of drinking games over grilled beef and vegetables and an abundance of side dishes and soups Ahjumma Kim so kindly fed them with, he really should’ve expected how fast time flew.

When he manages to pay Ahjumma Kim–with a generous tip, considering how much they ate–and succeeds in convincing Kun to leave the tent, Youngho is already breathless. They’re back out on the sidewalk, emptier in the late night, and Kun slips free of Youngho’s hold, sluggish making his way forward.

Youngho follows, catches Kun’s wrist before he can wander off, “Where are you going?”

“Hm?” Kun sways on his feet, “Huh?”

“Wow, you really are drunk, Qian Kun,” Youngho laughs.

Kun waves his hands around, “You’ve seen me drunk.”

Youngho shakes his head, incredulous. That nagging feeling of irritation at having missed out on being in Kun’s life returns, just like it’d never left, and Youngho laughs it off, refusing to dig further into it.

He tries to have Kun put on his jacket, the thin layer of just his shirt an invite for a cold; Youngho warns when Kun refuses, “You’re going to get sick if you don’t put this on.”

Kun rolls his eyes, “I’ve been sick before, it’s nothing new.” He starts to walk away from Youngho again, grumbling to himself under his breath, “It’s not even that cold anyway.”

“You’re shivering,” Youngho says dryly. He ignores Kun’s flailing, pulling the jacket on for Kun, an arm at a time. Eventually, Kun realizes that resisting only takes up energy he doesn’t have, so he goes motionless and lets Youngho zip him up, “There you go.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Kun mumbles. He shoves his hands into his pockets and sighs, a white puff leaving his lips. “And thanks for bringing me out.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Youngho grins. They continue down the street, neither appearing to know where they’re doing, neither of them caring, “I told you I wanted to.”

They’re thrown momentarily into silence, nothing but the sounds of trees rustling and the occasional car passing by. Youngho breathes in deep, wonders when exactly _was_ the last time he spent a night out like this, just basking in the fresh air and the quiet he could never get in the bustling city. With the stores closed and the roads empty, the city felt like a whole new dimension, as if Youngho didn’t spend the bulk of his days working in the heart of it.

“Why?”

Youngho snaps out of his reverie, “What?” He registers belatedly that Kun is no longer by his right, but a way back, standing motionless. Youngho turns, not understanding if it’s his brain that isn’t functioning right or if it’s some sort of glitch in the universe, “Why what?”

Kun licks his lips, “Why did you want to have dinner with me?”

_Why?_

“Why?” Youngho echoes. The back of his neck starts to prickle, “What do you mean ‘why’? It’s your first day here and you’re–my best friend, of course, I’d take you to dinner.”

Kun doesn’t budge, “We’re not best friends.”

A small voice in Youngho’s head tells him to tread lightly. Kun’s cheeks are rosier than pink and his eyes are wide, the whites of it bright. At his sides, his hands are clenched into fists and Youngho doesn’t know what world he’s walked into.

Did he offend Kun in saying they were? Sure, they haven’t been in contact for years, but they were always best friends, weren’t they? Forever and always, they would be best friends.

“Kun,” Youngho says slowly, “We’ve had a lot to drink tonight, maybe it’s best if I just call you a cab home and–”

“If we were best friends,” Kun speaks over him, “Why did you stop talking to me?”

Youngho freezes. In the middle of a sidewalk in the dead of the night to dredge up things from their collective past is not where he wants to be. He closes the distance between them, watches Kun stand his ground, feet glued to the pavement.

“Let me call you a cab,” Youngho says, fishing for his phone from his pockets. He pulls out the Uber app, “What’s your address? Are you staying in the city?”

“You’re not going to answer me?” Kun stares up at him boldly, his timidness stripped away by soju. He swallows thickly, “If we’re best friends then why didn’t you answer my letters? My emails? My texts? If we’re best friends, why did it seem like you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore when I left eight years ago?”

“That’s not–” Youngho can’t think, the clouds in his mind thickening with every second, “It’s not that, Kun–you’ve always been my best friend, but I–” Youngho winces inwardly when the dull throbbing at the back of his head thuds heavily, “Can we–talk about this some other time? We’re not in the right–”

“I waited.” Kun inhales sharply, “I waited and I waited, hyung.”

“Kun–”

“The night I left,” Kun shakes his head. “Do you remember what I told you?”

—

“Don’t cry, c’mon.”

Kun makes a low, whining noise, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. He keeps his head buried in his arms, knees pushed up to his chest, curling himself up. Youngho knows Kun only did this whenever he wanted to shut the world out, to protect himself from whatever’s going on around him.

Youngho settles down next to Kun, sitting cross-legged with his back to the empty bed frame. He tosses the baseball up in the air and catches it again, not knowing what to say.

What could he say?

What could he say when he hated it too? When he didn’t know if they were going to be best friends? When he didn’t know when they would see each other again? When he didn’t know what he needed to hear either?

“I hate this,” Kun whispers, crying freely into his arms, “I hate this, I hate this!”

Youngho does too. He leans his head against Kun’s shoulder, knowing nothing but needing simply–for one of the last few times–the contact they’re so used to constantly having. Thinking hard and coming up with nothing, Youngho settles with, “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” Kun sniffles again, speaks into his arm the muffled words, “ _Ying_. Yinghao, I like you.”

Youngho barks out a laugh, “Well, I’d hope you still do after you leave!” He tosses the baseball into one of Kun’s unsealed boxes, “Because I like you too, Kun.”

—

“What?”

“Do you remember?” Kun repeats, “What I said to you the night before I had to leave?”

“Yes,” Youngho would never forget, “Yes, of course, Kun.”

“What did I say?”

“That you’d miss me,” Youngho knows this. What he doesn’t know is whatever Kun’s expecting, whatever Kun’s thinking, “And I know I’d promised we’d be best friends forever, but when you left–I was so upset, I didn’t want to think about you leaving, I just didn’t want to think at all, I–”

“That’s not–” Kun’s expression breaks from frustration to confusion, then understanding. His brows smoothen out and his lips part, and in a flash, it’s as if he’d been shocked sober, “That’s not what I meant.”

Youngho shakes his head, “Then what are you talking about?” He can’t focus, “Why are we talking about eight years ago? I don’t get it–are you angry at me for wanting to be friends again? Did you not want to be?”

For a long while, it’s quiet. Kun breaks away first, averting his eyes when Youngho refuses to relent. He blinks rapidly at the ground, the internal wheels and cogs of his mind spinning faster than Youngho can follow. Youngho wants to ask if he’s done something wrong, if he’d said something he shouldn’t, if he should just leave Kun alone–Kun takes a deep breath, straightens.

“Sorry,” he smiles, small and timid again. He rummages for his phone and wallet, “I think I really did drink too much tonight–I should head home.”

Youngho feels like he’s thrown in the dark, “What?” He steps in Kun’s way when the younger boy tries to hurry off, “No, wait–Kun, what’s going on? I know–I know it’s been years, but–”

_But what?_

_It’s been eight years and I hate that I don’t know anything about you anymore? It’s been eight years and I don’t know what to say to you, but I feel like I have a hundred things I want to know about you and a hundred other things I want to tell you? It’s been eight years and I don’t want to lose you again?_

_But why does it feel like you’re driving me away?_

Kun takes advantage of the silence, “Thank you for taking me out tonight, hyung.” He ignores Youngho’s attempts to speak, “I really–appreciate it and I can’t thank you enough, but I’m just going to catch a cab home now.” He steps away and the brick wall between them is clear, “Please get home safely tonight.”

Without sparing a second more, Kun spins on his heels and hurries off, head ducked low as he goes. Youngho wants to call out for him, wants to ask just _what the hell is going on?_ But he doesn’t. The words stick tight in his throat, refuses to work.

Alone now, Youngho closes his eyes, regretting the alcohol swimming in his veins.

–

“What’s wrong with you?”

Youngho doesn’t know just how to answer that question. He’d been asking himself the same thing all weekend, wrapped in an unnecessary number of blankets, eating ice cream out of their tubs, and binge-watching every single nature documentary on National Geographic.

“Hello?” Taeyong waves a hand in Youngho’s face, peering close as if he thought Youngho’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. Glancing at Youngho’s empty desktop and glazed eyes, Taeyong taps lightly at Youngho’s temple, “Suh Youngho, are you in there somewhere?”

Youngho lets the light push tilt his entire body off to the side, groaning as the chair squeaks under his weight. He presses his palms against his eyes, begs for an awakening from his soulless plight, “I’m here, I’m here.”

“You don’t sound all that excited to be,” Taeyong hums. He pokes at Youngho’s shoulder, “What’s gotten into you? It must be really bad if you aren’t even watching cat videos anymore.”

Youngho doesn’t have the heart to.

Not when his mind can’t stop thinking about Kun–his eyes that spoke hundreds of things, expecting Youngho to know the thoughts he can’t read; his words that dug deep in Youngho’s conscience, like he’s missing a piece of the puzzle; his back that had turned to Youngho when he walked away, the silhouette and shadows ingrained into the walls of Youngho’s mind.

Taeyong has always been more observant than others, and Youngho doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not when he asks, “It was the dinner, wasn’t it? The dinner you had with Kun?” Youngho nods robotically, pulls a sigh from Taeyong, “What happened? Did you–say something to him?”

Youngho looks up, “What?”

“Did you say something to him?” Taeyong blinks, “You told him, didn’t you?”

“Tell him what?” Youngho is far from exasperation; he’s close to the edge of desperation. “I didn’t say anything to him–he just got a little angry, I guess, that I didn’t keep contact after he left the first time, but–I tried, I mean, I wanted to explain that I was young–and I didn’t know how to handle emotions, but he shut me off.”

Taeyong thinks, folds his arms across his chest, “Would you say–he got unreasonably angry over it?”

“I don’t know,” Youngho doesn’t know most things, “I get that he’s upset. I would be too if he didn’t talk to me for years–” he groans into his hands, “–if I were waiting for him for years. He just–didn’t let me explain and I was out of it, I didn’t know what I should be doing or what he wanted me to do.”

“I wonder,” Taeyong hums, with that carefree lilt in his voice he always had whenever he _did_ know something, “Well then, are you going to talk to him again about this?”

“Should I?” Youngho asks, genuinely oblivious. He leans back into his seat to look at Taeyong helplessly, hoping his best friend might have some sort of answer ready for him, “Given how he left and my unread messages, I don’t think he wants anything to do with me anymore.”

“But aren’t you curious?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong props himself up onto Youngho’s desk, legs swinging. “Don’t you want to know why he’s upset with you?”

 _Isn’t it obvious?_ Youngho gapes, “Because I was a shit friend? Because I ignored him for eight years? And then acted like nothing happened?”

“And he got angry. Really angry. Upset, even.” Taeyong lifts his hands like he’s already spelled it out for Youngho, “Well?”

“Well, what!” Youngho wishes Taeyong would just please tell him, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to–”

“Mr. Suh?”

Youngho sits up, peers past where Taeyong’s sitting on his desk to look at the timid intern standing three feet away, holding a file to his chest. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, waits for Youngho to nod before he starts to speak, “There’s someone in Meeting Room Three for you. Says they’re your eleven o’clock meeting.”

Youngho stares at the intern, then the calendar on his desk. He shouldn’t be having any meetings this week; he shouldn’t have any meetings scheduled for the rest of the year.

Taeyong is equally puzzled, “Is this a meeting for the Jinro Project?”

“No,” Youngho grapples for the files piled on the edge of his desk, picking up the latest project they’d closed before their self-awarded break, “I met with Lee Taean the week before last. We don’t have any open projects.”

Taeyong hops off the desk, “Alright, then let’s–”

“Uh–uhm, it’s an internal schedule,” the intern mumbles, fiddling with the piece of scrap paper in his hand, “It’s a Mr. Qian. From Communications and Liaisons.”

Youngho stands so quick, both knees cracking at the sheer pressure.

Taeyong whirls around, “Right. Mr. Qian, yes, yes, _yes._ Oh, we are familiar, yes, with a Mr. Qian. Yes.” He waits for Youngho to say something, but Youngho doesn’t even blink. Taeyong claps Youngho hard on the shoulder, “Go on then. You have that–project to discuss, don’t you? With the-uh, Mr. Qian?”

Youngho nods, barely registering Taeyong’s words. He starts walking only when Taeyong gives him another rough push, following the intern out of the main office space and down one of the long halls leading up to the meeting rooms.

“Meeting Room Three, Mr. Suh.”

Youngho nods again, by now the only thing he’s capable of doing. The intern bows slightly, taking his leave without another word. Youngho barely notices it, focused instead on the pacing silhouette behind the meeting room’s frosted glass.

“You can do this,” Youngho whispers under his breath, “You can do this, whatever it is you have to do–you can do it. Yes.”

It’s electric when Youngho touches the handle. He ignores it and pushes, hit immediately with the heating from within the room. The door creaks under his hand and the sound has Kun looking up. Youngho hovers by the door, stunned first by seeing Kun again.

Youngho braves the unknown and steps into the meeting room.

The door shuts.

Kun is standing on the other end of the large, oval table in the middle of the room. His arms are wrapped tight around himself, the edges of his suit crinkling too. Kun shifts his weight from one leg to the other, cheeks puffing up, then out. Youngho watches with his lips sealed, breathing slowly through his nose.

Eventually, Youngho breaks the silence, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Kun’s reply is immediate. His eyes go big, like he hadn’t expected himself to answer so quickly either. He clears his throat, moves to adjust his glasses, “I’m–sorry I had to call you in here like this. I wanted–to talk to you.”

“I texted you.”

Kun licks his lips, “Face-to-face.”

Youngho shakes his head, “You didn’t text me back.”

“You didn’t either for eight years.” Kun smiles as he says it, a dimple creasing deep, and Youngho feels his chest lighten. There another bout of quiet that washes over, just the heating from the vent whirring softly, “Can we talk?”

“Yes, but,” Youngho glances around the empty room, “I don’t know if this is the right place to do it.”

“It’ll be quick,” Kun nods. “I just wanted to apologize, and–we don’t have to talk again after.”

Youngho represses the initial response to frown. He inches forward, slow and steady, “Apologize?”

“Yes. For Friday night.” Kun wrings his hands, “I–drank too much and I didn’t mean what I said about being angry at you for the past eight years, because I’m not and it was really–crap of me for blaming it on you. So–I’m sorry, hyung.”

Youngho blinks. He’d expected Kun to tell him more, to reveal some sort of underlying secret that he didn’t want Youngho knowing, something that’d made him act the way he did. They were friends after all then, Taeyong was right–there was no reason for Kun to get that upset at him. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t either of their faults–it was and always has been out of their control.

But Youngho,

he’d gotten upset too. Unreasonably so at himself throughout the entirety of the weekend.

Kun smiles now, walking towards Youngho with his shoulders squared and his chin held high. He sticks a hand out for Youngho to take, “Are we good?”

_That’s it?_

_That’s it._

Youngho takes Kun’s hand, gingerly at first. Kun’s hand is cold against his warm palm, and Kun’s fingers are thin where they wrap around Youngho’s. It’s not electric, no–it’s not fireworks, it’s not a burst of light Youngho sees between them.

It’s a slow pulse that thrums where their hands meet.

It’s the same thrum Youngho used to feel whenever Kun smiled at him to thank him for buying them both ice cream; that same thrum of anticipation whenever Kun would dash to the piano, excited to play a new sonata for Youngho hear; that same thrum in his chest when he first say Kun again eight years after their last goodbye.

“That’s it?”

Kun’s smile drops, “What?”

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Youngho asks, hold firm on Kun’s hand. His gaze drops to it before meeting Kun’s eyes again, enamored by the darkness he sees, “You avoided me all weekend because you thought you’d crossed a line on Friday night?”

“Yes?” Kun’s throat works, “Yes.”

Youngho fights the grimace off his face, “That’s all you have to say to me.”

Kun tries to pull his hand away weakly, but Youngho doesn’t let him step even an inch further. His eyes dart away from Youngho’s to stare out the large windows that open up to the city skyline. Youngho doesn’t look away, tracing the lines of Kun’s face.

Kun touches the tip of his tongue to his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say here.”

“Whatever you expected me to say on Friday night,” Youngho throws back. He doesn’t want to shake hands and let Kun leave just like that. The mere thought of it struck Youngho as _wrong_ –it simply wasn’t right, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t pinpoint the reason for it. The burn against his skin almost unbearable, “You wanted me to say something, I know you did.”

“I don’t–remember.”

“Okay. Look at me when you tell me that.”

It’d always been their thing. Even when they were kids, Kun hated showing his weaknesses. He didn’t like Youngho’s probing questions whenever his bloodshot eyes were obviously from crying, he didn’t like Youngho’s earnest efforts to get him to talk about whatever it was that made him sad, he didn’t like Youngho’s encouragements and cheers to confront his fears.

Youngho has always known that; Kun never looked at him when he lied.

“Kun?”

And maybe it’s the severity of Youngho’s voice that has Kun turning now. His eyes are filled to the brim and his shoulders heaved with every breath, lip bitten to keep them from trembling.

Youngho feels his soul leave his body, “Kun…”

“The night I left,” Kun whispers, shaky like a leaf in fall, “I told you I liked you, Yinghao. I told you.”

Youngho loses his mind. It must’ve rolled off the edge of the building down thirty-seven floors, because he knows this. He knows Kun said that and he, in fact, had said it back–Youngho had said that he would miss Kun, that of course he likes Kun back, they were best friends, they were–

“I thought I got over you,” Kun laughs, tears rolling down his cheeks. He snatches his hand away, successful now with Youngho shocked still. He wipes them away quickly, “I thought you were just some–crush I had when I was a kid and it took me so long to get over you, hyung, I–I thought you stopped talking to me because you realized what I meant and figured you didn’t want to have anything to do with me, I–”

“No, Kun–”

“–but then I saw you again.” Kun smiles and it’s painful because there’s no joy in it at all, “I saw you again and in one night, you took me back eight years. In a single night, you brought me back to where I was. In one night, while knowing nothing about you, while having not seen you in forever, I realized where I wanted to stand with you.

And I–I still like you, hyung.”

Youngho swallows, hard. For a long moment, he just stares, waiting for his mind to formulate the right words for this exact conversation–this conversation Youngho hadn’t known he wanted to be a part of all these years, this conversation Youngho hadn’t even dreamed of, this conversation Youngho doesn’t know what to do with.

How could he not know of something he wanted so much?

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Kun starts, “I didn’t want you to know, I just wanted to be your friend again, I just wanted to–”

Youngho throws his arms around Kun, mildly apologetic when he hears Kun choke on his words. He hugs Kun tight, hooks his chin over Kun’s shoulder. Against his chest, Kun’s rises and falls as quick as Youngho’s does, both of them moving in time. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, hopes that his actions can speak for him while the rest of his body struggles to catch up.

“What–what–”

“I don’t know,” Youngho mumbles. Kun smells so _good_ –bless whatever body wash the company has in stock at the rental apartments–and Youngho breathes deeply, tries to stop his blood rushing to his head, “I don’t know, but I’m sorry.”

Kun goes rigid under him.

“No, _no_ –that’s not–” Youngho pulls away, holds Kun by the shoulders, “I mean–”

Youngho wets his lips. Kun is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that ever mattered and Youngho curses at having never noticed it before–how could he have _possibly_ known? They were so young–Youngho barely has any idea navigating life right now, and he’s supposed to have eight years of experience under his belt.

“You mean more than just a friend to me, Kun.” Youngho nods, regaining some semblance of control over his being, “More than a best friend, more than–I don’t know. I’ve never known–but now that you’ve told me, I–it feels like–I feel so _stupid_ –why didn’t I realize this before? Why didn’t I realize this on my own?”

Kun stares like he’s got three heads. And one of them has six eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Youngho whispers. He squeezes Kun’s shoulders, “I would’ve–I would’ve–”

“When should I have told you?” Kun says, quiet. His eyes are well up with tears once more, “When we were so young? When I'd left? In my letters? My emails? My texts? When I first saw you again on the sidewalk? What would you have done, hyung?”

Youngho lets out a long breath, “I–I don’t know. I’m sorry, I–” he collects Kun into a hug again, sighing when Kun’s hands are on the small of his back this time, fingers in Youngho’s shirt, “I’m sorry–I’d only realized when I saw you again that I didn’t want you to leave again. I never wanted you to leave in the first place.”

“I know.”

“Eight years ago, I didn’t want to think about you leaving so I–ignored you and I did feel sorry for it, I really did,” Youngho closes his eyes, “I’d missed you so much, I thought I was going crazy–I’m pretty sure my mother did for crying over you so much.”

That makes Kun laugh once, “You cried?”

“All the time,” Youngho admits. He hugs Kun tighter, and the unease in his chest clicks–like he’d just fit the final piece of a long-awaited puzzle, “I’m sorry.”

Kun pulls away, barely enough to get an inch between them. His hands snake up to touch Youngho’s cheeks hesitantly, like he were afraid Youngho would disappear into thin air like a dream if he did. Youngho covers one of Kun’s hands with his own, presses Kun’s hand against his cheek.

Kun inhales sharply at the touch.

Youngho whispers, “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Kun murmurs, too distracted with his attentive inspection of Youngho’s face. His thumb grazes lightly over Youngho’s cheekbone, “What do you–what do you want to do?”

Youngho licks his lips; Kun blinks twice, then nods.

Youngho leans down and Kun tiptoes, meet him halfway. The kiss is brief, a simple press of their lips together, but Youngho feels it thrum past his cheeks and down his neck, across his chest and to his fingertips. It’s innocuous and vanilla sweet, and it has Youngho melting into a puddle of goo–from the sweetest kiss Youngho swears he’s ever had.

Kun’s cheeks are scarlet when they break apart to breathe.

Youngho can’t rid the smile on his face; it’s permanent and he’ll henceforth have to live with this wonky smile on his face for the rest of his life, “Would you–have lunch with me today?”

“Yeah,” Kun laughs, like he can’t keep from smiling either, that timid demeanor of his now colored with a sort of pleased fondness, “Yeah, I would.”

And Youngho wonders if he had known,

If he had known the night Kun told him, if he’d realized the day Kun had left, would they have made it? Would they have made the eight years?

He hopes they would’ve.

But the past eight years don’t matter anymore. The lost time, the lost memories, experiences, opportunities, chances. They don’t matter, not when they have the next eight (and the next, and the _next_ ) to make up for it–and maybe, they’ll make to a time they won’t even remember today, a mere blip in their past eight years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so SORRY i lost my mind please go easy on me. . ...
> 
> to the individual who requested: i sincerely hope this was alright ;;;;;;;; 
> 
> yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jenhyungs)


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